


His Hand Left the Rainbow to the Skies

by jetblackmirror (orphan_account)



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-16 02:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/jetblackmirror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the pills run out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Hand Left the Rainbow to the Skies

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [WTF?](http://community.livejournal.com/mychemicaltest/85529.html#cutid1) challenge over at [mychemicaltest](http://www.livejournal.com/users/mychemicaltest/) using the prompt Wings. For [black_mariah](http://www.livejournal.com/users/black_mariah/).

"...Well, I made you take time to look at what I saw and when you took time to really  
notice my flower you hung all your own associations with flowers on my flower and  
you write about my flower as if I think and see what you think and see of the flower - and I don't."  
\- Georgia O'Keeffe

 

It's a thick and heavy salty coppery acrid wet slap and it burns him like lye and he wants this to stop but it's never going to stop no matter what he does or takes or hears or learns and all he wants are his arms around him but it's not going to happen and why won't it stop before he dies.

Fall from heaven. Fade to black.

Rinse. Repeat. Recycle.

Reincarnate.

There's a room with no doors at the end of a long tunnel and his legs burn from running and his lungs burn from running and his tears burn his eyes and the bile burns his throat and he claws at his arms because he feels on fire but his nails are too short and they won't even leave red wake lines.

Stop. Drop. Roll.

Fucking copout.

Fucking lie.

He's there in the room at the end of the tunnel with no doors and five walls and he looks at him with saline eyes and he chokes and coughs and tries to speak but it's not working out and he skins his knees but doesn't feel pain and he wants to scream but he's looking at him now with saline eyes.

Brother and friend.

And lover.

"Gerard."

His skin is made from crumbling white chalk and his eyes are coal like the kind they stick in great stacked balls of snow on Christmas morning while his grandma bakes cookies and his mom sips from Mary's red lips and his dad chews on celery and he cuddles up with him by the fire while he waits while the papier-mâché dries.

History repeats itself.

Memories fade.

"Mikey."

Wings unfurl wide behind him before him and their molted ink feathers block the faux sun that hangs like a hangman from a satin noose and the light comes through the thin leather webbing carmine like stained glass in a church and he wants to shove rose beads into his heart and sing of the Madonna with the grace in her lies.

Ave Maria.

Hare Krishna.

Awen.

It's cold when he touches his face and wipes at his tears with a hand of suede fingers and his sandpaper silk lips brush a heart with no soul and he reaches up and grips at carbon dated linen and it tears beneath his digits and he screams as he pulls away and he fights to hold on to vapor and dies.

Yellow for the sorrow.

Pink for the joy.

Blue for the hymns of the angel that sings.


End file.
